


Near to You

by Avelera



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heartache, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Thorin’s death, it was a long time before Bilbo had the heart to make a joke again. A year later, Bofur helps Bilbo return to who he used to be. Fluff, with a bit of angst. </p><p>Beta'd by the lovely Vulgarweed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near to You

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song “Near to You” by A Fine Frenzy. I’m personally overjoyed to have nudged at least one Hobbit-centric fic out of the door. I may tack on a few additional scenes that are floating around in my head regarding this pairing, but for now I hope you enjoy.

It was nearly a year to the day after Bilbo's return from his journey when he heard the knock at the door. Once he might have hastened to it, panicking over the state of dust on the mantle and throwing a robe over the clothes he had slept in. Then again, he’d had few visitors since he returned, save the children who stole away to beg him for stories. They were the only ones not scared off by his worn and weary expression, his non-existent patience with village foolishness. Someday his patience would return, and he’d learn to smile and joke with the hobbit gaffers and matrons again, as his mind settled back to the quiet pace of Shire life. But that time seemed very far away. For now when he closed his eyes he saw battlefields, blood-soaked armor, and the glow of the Arkenstone winking out forever as the sarcophagus lid ground shut. 

It was only when the knocking became so insistent that he thought it might take the door from his hinges that Bilbo rose and left his spot by the window. Once his heart might have lurched, for it was too tired to leap, at such a loud, insistent knock. But months of Sackville-Bagginses, Bolgers, and Brandybucks had worn away such foolish hopes.

So it was with a scowl and a face like death warmed over that Bilbo jerked the door of his hobbit hole open with a very annoyed, “ _What_?”

However, his intended tirade, about the nerve of banging on a hobbit’s door louder than a stampede of ponies, died on his tongue. For he was brought face to face with a leather-clad fist just inches from his nose, and beyond it a furry hat with earflaps like wings.

“Bilbo!” He had only a moment to blink before he was dragged against a broad chest that smelled of sweat, dirt, and dwarf. The scent (more of a stench) rose around him like a spell, and surely as he was there he could see the road and the line of his companions stretching out before him. A feeling more like home than Bag End had been in a long time rose in his belly and curled around his heart like smoke.

Strong hands grasped his shoulders and Bilbo reeled as he was held at arms length and Bofur’s face came back into view. His beard was not as short as the last time he had showed up on uninvited on Bilbo’s doorstep, but his mustache still curled impressively as ever above a longer beard and braids. Bofur’s dark eyes studied Bilbo, the wide smile failing a little at the edges, the shine of joy tarnished as his eyebrows drew together with concern. “You look terrible.”

Bilbo was suddenly and painfully aware of the state of his shirt, his absence of waistcoat, and the suspenders twisting haphazardly at his shoulder. The utter lack of concern he had given to his appearance over the past months now made him feel out of place in his own skin. And just as suddenly he was aware of the stench of stale pipe-weed heavy in the air of Bag End. Really, it was quite disgraceful.

“Well, you know how it is. Still catching up on all the cleaning, errands, whatnot… After all, there was no one to tend the place with me running off into the blue.” He swung his arms a bit as if to gesture at the piles of work and cleaning that still needed doing even after a year back at Bag End. True, rounding up all the furniture and silverware had taken much of his time those first few months. A good thing, really, despite the frustrations involved. It had given him something to do. But even those tasks had come to an end, and the stolen moments glancing out the window East, to the winding road, had lengthened. Now the sun rose and set quite outside his awareness before he realized he had spent the day motionless at the window, gazing off into the distance.

“Ah. Just as well,” said Bofur, the smile returning.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not too far along. It will be an easier task with two.” Bofur clapped Bilbo on the shoulder and strolled past him into the foyer. 

“No but…wait, Bofur, what are you _doing_ here? Shouldn’t you be in Erebor? Bombur, Bifur…” 

“Are grown dwarves and able to take care of themselves,” Bofur said cheerfully over his shoulder. “And to answer your first question, I’m visiting. And look, you even knew me _before_ I came visiting this time. It’s all quite proper, I assure you. Though I can write you up a contract if that’s more to your liking. Let’s see.” He mimed reading a scroll. “Good for one dwarf for a period of at least, but not limited to, afternoon tea.” He arched his eyebrows in mock apology. “I’d make it shorter, but I’ve been walking for days and you really do owe me that much.”

Despite himself, Bilbo laughed, a deep rolling and very hobbit-y laugh. It bounced merrily around the inside of the walls, and would have startled them were they living, for it had been long since any joy was heard there.

“Well, that’s more like it,” said Bofur warmly.

“And how long, may I ask, is this contract good for?” said Bilbo, once his chuckles died down. Though he could not see it himself, he was already standing a bit taller, as if he had shed a heavy coat.

“Well,” said Bofur, stroking at his mustache. “According to tradition, which usually takes precedence in these matters, determining such things would require several days negotiation and haggling until both parties are dissatisfied but too sick with arguing to care. However as you are already a trusted hobbit, and there are no outside witness, my professional opinion is that we can forgo all that rubbish and leave it to the host to decide.” Bofur’s tone was lighthearted, but his gaze held steady as he spoke, and Bilbo fancied he saw a spark of hope in his eyes. However, he could not be certain of this, for it could just as easily have been a reflection of the hope in his own. 

Bofur cleared his throat and glanced back at his imaginary scroll. “As you’ll see here at the bottom, there is a provision for services rendered.” He gave the room a critical once-over. “And there appear to be a number of services that need rendering.” 

“Oh no, I’m not sure my mother’s dishes can survive another round of dwarven care,” Bilbo said in mock-horror. 

“Such insults!” Bofur scoffed, snapping the “scroll” shut. “My dear Bilbo, you give my people too little credit. I’ll have you know that the fine art of housekeeping yields before us as surely as that of mining and jewel craft.  Did not Durin the Deathless himself say that while there is virtue in tending your own forge, the greater joy comes in aiding another?” 

Without waiting for an answer, Bofur set to work, though this time his ministrations lacked the flurry of movement and music of his last visit to Bag End, for he also lacked his many brothers and cousins as well. Still, it was certainly much swifter than Bilbo could have done on his own even at his most motivated, let alone in the depths he had found himself of late.

So it was not long before they found themselves in the garden, each with his pipe full of Old Toby, as the sun lowered herself to kiss the tops of the rolling Shire hills. The windows of Bag End were open to the pleasant evening, the floors scrubbed and the mantles dusted. Before retiring to the garden, Bilbo had changed to a clean shirt and a fine blue waistcoat (with a handkerchief tucked in the pocket, which Bofur smirked at but said nothing). While they worked they had spoken of Bilbo’s return to the Shire, and he detailed the dreadful machinations of the Sackville-Baggineses and how they had nearly gained Bag End, while Bofur laughed uproariously at Bilbo’s description of Lobelia.

“No, I imagine she will hold that grudge long past my death, the evil hag. I swear the woman can curdle milk by looking at it. But enough about them, the dull lot. Tell me of Erebor.” Bilbo kept his tone light, but it held a brittle quality as his tongue danced over the syllables of the mountain so long sought by their company. Even the most pleasant memories of the journey now held a bittersweet flavor, ever since the Arkenstone, and the great battle.

“Erebor is well, and Dain a fair king. He’s had the lot of us declared heroes, imagine that.”

“Well, it’s no less than you deserve!” exclaimed Bilbo.

“Ack! What sort of curse are you trying to call on us? I tell you it’s perfectly dreadful. I couldn’t wait to free myself. It took a whole year, all the baby kissing and council sessions. If Dain had hoped to punish us for joining the Company he could not have devised a better torture.”

“And why would he want to punish you?” Bilbo said.

“The company was never a popular one.” Bilbo blinked as he realized the gravity of his question was far greater than he had thought. Bofur’s tone had grown somber. “It was not just the elves that wanted to stop us. Truth be told, there was no small fear amongst the other dwarves that we’d wake the dragon and bring calamity down on all our heads. But Thorin…”

Bofur fell silent, for they had come to the heart of the matter. It was the one name they had not spoken all day, and its first utterance struck Bilbo like a fall into icy water. Just like that, he felt the touch of fingers grown clammy with death, smelled the blood, and saw the eagles swooping overhead. With it rushed back the emptiness of that realization that just as the Arkenstone was irreplaceable to Thorin, there was one who had been dearer to Bilbo than any cold stone, no matter its shine or worth.

But stone endured and in that moment, the tears turning his vision to a mottled field of color, he had understood the dwarven love of those dead gems, because at least that which is already dead cannot leave you. It will endure long past frail mortal bodies, and can survive the passage of time and carving of many wounds. To love something immortal…some called it foolishness, or greed. Some called that love faith, or patriotism, and were perhaps nobler for it. Love of immortal things had so defined his king, with his love of Erebor, of the dwarves and the infinite possibilities of their hands and their lives. And for a short time, Bilbo had been a part of that.

He could feel that dark well of memory sucking at him, dragging him back into the haze that had so trapped him in the months since Gandalf left him at the edge of the Shire, desolate and irrevocably changed. He had wept for Thorin until there were no more tears, and when that wellspring dried he had wandered his empty house, weighted down by the memory of forgiveness come too late to save anyone. Neither magic rings nor gold could erase the sight of the stone lid closing over the tomb, as the Arkenstone was shut away like the moon behind a cloud, taking Thorin with it. What good was all the treasure in the world, if it could not bring back what was lost? What good invisibility, if it could not hide him from his own thoughts?

A warm hand closed around his and he returned to himself as if awakening from a nightmare. The setting sun had set the sky alight in a blaze of violet and rose. The Shire stretched peacefully before him. He looked over, and saw Bofur watching him, and the hand around his tightened.

“I came as soon as I could. All of us would have. Members of the Company… we have to stick together.”

“All of them, Bofur?” said Bilbo gently.

Bofur looked sheepish, and a bit afraid as he drew Bilbo’s hand close, and tentatively placed a kiss to the knuckles. Bilbo felt the tickle of breath and the warmth of dry lips cracked by the sun and wind. He saw another vision then, a noble head of black hair with streaks of silver at the crown, but he also saw that skin turned gray, the mouth stained with blood at the corners.

But those thoughts were for the dead, and served no one. Instead he turned his thoughts to a different sort of memory, to the many little gestures, the handkerchief, the pleading in Bofur’s eyes when Bilbo first thought to abandon the quest. His retreat as the bond between Thorin and Bilbo grew, the king and his burglar. That plea was in his eyes again, though he was no beggar. Just as in the cave, Bofur was not one to force the issue or tread where he was unwelcome. Bilbo knew for some time more he’d see another dark head in his mind’s eye, a noble brow and eyes that burned with purpose. Even so, now was the time to leave the dead to their sleep, and return to the living.

“Well, perhaps not all as much as some,” admitted Bofur.

Bilbo regarded Bofur, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The familiar smell of pipe-weed mingled with the green things of the garden. Only now there was another scent, that of leather, smoke, and steel that was not bloody. In short, the smell of dwarf. Not just any dwarf, but Bofur, who had made a home for Bilbo on the road, and who now brought the scent of that home with him. Without it, Bag End had been no more than a house.

“So, are the terms of that contract still up for negotiation?” said Bilbo. 

“It’s a stretch, but we may be able to work something out,” said Bofur. “Given a fair offer.”

“Would an indefinite contract be acceptable?” said Bilbo.

Bofur’s eyes crinkled at the corner. “I’m not sure you can afford it. Some manner of deposit would be required to seal the bargain.” 

Bilbo rose to stand before Bofur, and very deliberately pushed back the ridiculous hat. He then leaned down and placed a kiss on Bofur’s forehead, holding it until there could be no doubt. When he looked down he saw Bofur’s dark eyes brighten with that which they did not yet have words for. It was no matter, there would be time for that later. The last of the sun’s rays as it set over the hills brought out the strands of copper in his black hair, and though darkness fell, the night no longer seemed so cold.

“Will that do for my deposit, Master Bofur?”

“Aye, Master Baggins. That will indeed do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'd also love to know what you thought of this piece!


End file.
